by AnonYMous
Celestial.
I felt sorry for her having to be seen with me. It was obvious she could do so much better. Maybe it was because she had recently broken up with a guy who she described as “very pretty” and “very tall” and “very rich” Surely I was just a consoling gnome trotting along beside her, yelping happily every time she flashed a smile. I didn’t feel worthy of playing the male lead and yet I wasn’t about to cheat myself out of the chance of getting close to that body either. If any sexual crumbs fell of the table I’d be there. She was definitely worth the wait, if waiting was what I was doing.
At worst I’d learn how to behave around beauty and I could use my findings on future prospects. In the meantime, I could at least pretend I was with her. She liked to walk around downtown visiting historic sites and I was quite happy with this idea because walking was perfect for making a move. And it was inexpensive.
But there was something nice about just getting to know her as a friend. Most of her friends were guys she said. This was an ominous sign. It meant women couldn’t stand being around her because she was naturally slim and beautiful and men would do anything to get into her pants including pretend to be her friend. The last thing she said before disappearing into the subway station that afternoon was; “I have to start looking for an apartment in Manhattan.” It was as if she wanted me to be clearly briefed. She was sharing with a roommate who she didn’t get on with. Did she only want me for my two-bedroomed apartment? Was I merely a real estate to her?
This had to stop.
We went walking again and she looked great in her tight jeans. She had that tight little ass in there. God help me. She was so feisty and sprite I thought I had better make a move soon or she wouldn’t be available for much longer. Some guy would approach her on a subway or in a café or in the street and that’d be the end of me. We sat on a bench in Union Square and as we chatted and laughed at the squirrels she played with her hair and shoved out those breasts and even touched my knee not just once, but twice.
“I’d really like to kiss you’ I said
The squirrels froze in mid-nibble as an excruciating silence descended. It was so prolonged it seemed intentionally cruel. I should apologise. Make a joke. I had ruined everything. She inspected her boots. Feet together. I risked a look and instead of the beautiful smile there was only a lipless line.
“I’m not ready.” she said, more to herself, than anyone else. And suddenly she just appeared extraordinarily vain. I had been reluctant to bring up the kiss at all but I was torn between a fear that she might be insulted if I didn’t and a gung-ho need to at least get the subject aired.
“Ok,” I said, “but I just wanted you to know that I’d like to.”
There was a second uncomfortable pause and though I sensed my application was being considered I’d had enough for one night. I had a sudden need to do some rejecting of my own.
“Alright then, let’s get you to a subway.”
After a joyless hug at the subway station where nothing more than our jackets touched I walked home feeling bruised and used but glad I had tried. I hoped I’d never see her again. I’d concentrate on my book. Maybe I’d use the AA meetings for contacts. There were so many well-connected people attending meetings all over the city it seemed wasteful not to approach one of them. I would routinely sit beside Cute-E, Simon Reeves, Patt Nillon, Anthony Sherts, Ulrich Wapton, writers, actors, models and millionaires. People less principled than I turned up at meetings pretending to be alcoholics just so they could network.
Years before when I lived in London, I myself, had sponsored the now famous Terrance Cutler when he first came into the rooms. It was obvious that in asking me to sponsor him he was looking to get a part in a commercial. And I, hoping to trick him into getting sober encouraged him to believe I’d cast him in something as soon as he completed the Twelves Steps. But Terry was too clever for me. He had already taken the precaution of asking two other well-placed AA members to sponsor him so that he could decide which of us might offer the best career opportunity. He stopped calling after only a few days and I assumed he’d gone back to drinking. A few months later on a director’s show reel I was faced with one of the most macabre images I‘ve ever seen. Terry holding up a pint to camera. He had landed a part in a Blackbeer commercial.
The concept featured identical twins, both played by Terry, philosophising about the nature of dark and light while perhaps inwardly deciding whether to trade his sobriety for an acting career. The historic moment where he quaffs thirstily from the darkness is preserved forever. There’s an ad for AA in there somewhere.
“Can you forgive me for being such a teenager the other night?” Although her text acknowledged my disappointment it still didn’t offer anything even resembling hope. She was in town in her champagne-coloured Falfaux and if I wanted to go for a drive she’d be game. This expression had vaguely sexual connotations for me but I knew it wasn’t how she meant it. And though I would have loved to take her up on the offer she had to be punished for refusing my advances. I felt I had to protect myself from getting any more involved with her. Her offer of a drive felt like a platonic consolation for a sexually rejected buddy. I replied simply with a link to my newly completed website in the hope that it would show her I wasn’t just some penniless idiot who should count himself lucky to be with her and that, if anything, it was the other way around. I hadn’t really gone into detail about my advertising work because I wanted her to think of me as a writer. My intention now was to show her how cool I was, while at the same time denying her access. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to be so proud of my advertising work especially in art circles but it was beginning to look like I could.
An hour later, which in my mind, was enough time to check out my website and understand just how award-winning and internationally fucking wonderful I was, she texted me again; the girl just wasn’t ready… try again you will have more success. It was wearying to be proven right but I wasn’t going to refuse.
After a faultless dinner at a medium-priced Tibetan restaurant where we split the bill, I invited her back to my fur-lined lair. She looked lovely. There was something almost Midwestern about her manner as if she had yet to be Manhattanised. Her hair looked like Princess Leila by Pippi Longstocking. I liked it more when she wore her hair down because it framed that beautiful smile and made her appear like she was from seventies France but the significance was not lost on me that this was indeed date-hair. It was now just a question of where and when we would kiss.
There was a certain sadness attached to this realisation. As a lowly writer I was unkissable but she was willing to spend two hours on her hair for an award-winning advertising man It was a nagging doubt that persisted even as I nudged her gently against the railings of Tompkins Square Park and in the cool January air we kissed for the first time. She flicked her tongue gently across mine and for a moment I wanted to just jam her against the railings but it felt too disrespectful. Instead we strolled back to my place pretending to be interested in what we saw on the way. I fumbled my keys at both doors and since I’d made such a big deal out of having bought Barry’s tea from Cork she stood dutifully still while I went through the motions of putting on the kettle.
When I turned around it was into a deep longing yearning kiss. I felt her reach behind me to turn off the stove. She pulled back and looked at me now with the hope-filled eyes of a lover. No more ambiguity. Why? Because I had money? Because the apartment was nicer than she’d expected? Why did it even matter?
If only she had kissed me in Union Square.
I stepped forward and she stepped back and we waltzed like that kissing to the bedroom. On the bed we shoved ourselves together and opening her jeans I ventured fingertip toward the prize. I refrained from slipping a finger inside her, partly out of respect and partly from fear of rejection. Instead, I very gently traced that beautifully trimmed seam for what seemed like an inordinate length of time. The silence became tangible as if our futures depended on the
next infintesimal motion of my index finger. Had she known she would let me proceed this far? Was I just catching up with what she had already decided? Either way, the moment of immersion was audibly welcomed.
I can’t say for sure but I think she might have come right there on my fingers. I say this because as I continued to touch her very gently she shivered involuntarily and moaned deeply like she was on very strong drugs. I was pleased with this of course and congratulated myself on having thawed her out at last.
After a moment she arranged herself on top of me and lay there kissing and breathing warmly on my neck and ear. Her jeans were opened even more now and her groin was positioned directly over the hot bulge in my jeans.
“Let me introduce you to somebody.” I said, trying to be casual but I was already drunk with lust. Deftly, she opened the top two buttons of my jeans and exposed only the tip of my cock and began flicking her fingers across it so maddeningly I almost came. I had to stop her. I wasn’t ready for such an upheaval and I was enjoying the gentle unrushed atmosphere that had led us to this point. But I didn’t want her to think her skill was unappreciated
“I just don’t want to come yet.”
I was amazed at her skill. Amazed, thrilled and worried. If she was this good and that beautiful then I was in danger of…well…yes…of falling in love. But there was one area where she was still untested. If her ass turned out to be a misshapen mess then I could let myself off the hook, breathe a sigh of relief that could be presented as sexual satisfaction and turn my thoughts to the next online contestant. I let my hand stray downwards.
“Oh fuck.”
She laughed but I couldn’t have been more serious. It was perfect. Having all my criteria met was unsettling. I was like a castaway inconvenienced by rescue.
*****
I had only just arrived in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art when I saw Marian approach in scuffed boots, woolen tights, leather mini-skirt and an open coat. For a moment I didn’t even recognise her because she looked like one of those girls I was accustomed to seeing on the way to a date with some lucky bastard other than me. That she looked that good was in itself something to celebrate but the realisation that she had dressed like this specifically for me elevated my senses to such a degree that I gushed with gratitude.
We sauntered between the Greek and Roman statues that merely confirmed for me how well-proportioned and beautifully-made she was. Surely the music to which we moved was temporarily on mute. I pointed my camera at the statues but the pictures I took were of her. Smiling. Standing. Pointing. Walking.
“It’s because you‘re so well-made, that’s why you have such a feel for three-dimensional objects. You instinctively know when something is beautiful because it meets the standards of craftsmanship that you yourself represent.”
Yes, I actually said that to her.
She beamed at this and stepped effortlessly into a rockstar pose with one hand on her hip and her head-tilted in mock-defiance. I took the picture that so many men would later drool over and I realised at that moment I was in love with her. It had been creeping upon me like the flu but now it was full blown. Almost as suddenly things started to disintegrate. We couldn’t find a place to eat. All the cafes and restaurants were overrun with little nasal gnomes from the Upper East Side and the lovely Marian was starting to show signs of being seriously dissatisfied. Pissed even. Couldn’t she at least pretend to be polite? Was this her real character showing through? Had everything else just been an act? At last we ducked into Casimir, which was far too pricey for my newly bohemian tastes but worth it in the end because after a burger, the cheapest thing on the menu, she was fine again.
“What would you like to do now?’ I said, fully prepared to walk her to the subway.
“Lets have some more of that tea we never end up drinking.”
There was only one response that.
Lying there afterwards I felt as if a huge magnet had been lowered over me and all the sharp metal filings and ground-down iron fragments that had been circulating in my body and mind had been magically lifted out and replaced with warm honey.
“You’re like a teenager.” she said, blushing at the sight of my cock hardening again. Wearing nothing now but her dark gray woolen thigh-high tights she looked exactly like an ad for underwear I’d once seen on the Paris Metro.
“Hold that thought.” I said, taking the camera from the bag on the floor by the bed. She arched her back and turned slightly sideways and this was when I took the second soon-to-be-celebrated picture. I stared into the camera transfixed.
I’d lost all interest in other girls. I hadn’t even checked my messages for days. An uncomfortable notion presented itself. If I had a girl like this then I didn’t need to be online any more. I could remove my profile form datemedotcom. I had always imagined I‘d end up with a French girl, preferably in France with children that spoke French and yet it was ironic that Marian should look more French in this picture than Yvette ever did.
Surely I wasn’t about to settle for an American?
I wasn’t in the bag yet. There was still The Phone Thing. This was our shorthand for my inability to chat on the phone without becoming enraged. As soon as I heard Marian’s voice I’d feel something like dirty water rise inside me like a tide; an inexplicable urge to throw the phone at the wall or out the window or just hang up. When she gently enquired what the matter was I blamed it on the gappy cell-phone service saying it was just too frustrating not being able to hear her properly and that anyway I preferred it when we talked in person. This was only partially true. The real reason was unutterable.When she was physically present the combination of her scent, beauty and dress-sense, created a halo-effect that knocked her less attractive qualities into soft-focus. Those impossibly slender thighs extending from the ever-present knee socks countered any upsets caused by Americanisms like hey you or goofball. On the phone she had no such ambassadors. Her dismembered voice offered no protection from the fact that I was, for the first time in my life, not just in love, but in love with an American.
And it had become almost impossible to bring her to orgasm. She’d repositioned my fingers over an area that seemed so far north of where I would normally have set up camp I thought she was joking. On more than one occasion she removed my hand altogether not so much in disgust as resignation. Didn’t she realise she was discarding techniques that had worked for a large number of satisfied women? Apparently the “very pretty, very rich, very tall guy” she dated before me had actually gotten angry with her because she was taking so long to come. I feigned surprise.
“Angry? Really? Why?”
“Yeah, right? I mean, after all, it’s my body.”
Secretly I knew exactly what he meant. How insultingly boring it was to be down there lapping away on god-knows-what for god-knows how long, each moan from head-office just another false promise of promotion. But even as I made them I knew such protestations were merely last-ditch attempts at denial. I was in love.
Drama sought her out. Hardly a day seemed to go by without some new micro-castastrophe befalling her. The frequency of these mishaps would have been intolerable if she hadn’t insisted on being spanked for her part causing in them. Each new incident quickly became synonymous in my mind with the image of her beautiful pale quivering buttocks. Parking ticket, (Spank!) cracked phone, (Spank!) lost wallet, (Spank! Spank! Spank!) I thought about hiding her keys just to encourage matters along but as it turned out I didn’t have to. She locked us out of her apartment one freezing night and as we waited for her upstairs neighbors, I decided to cut my name out of a piece of card and spank it onto her ass until it was legible enough to photograph. I really was in love. Maybe next time I’d cut out a heart-shape.
And then the hints began to be dropped. If only her roommate wasn’t always so depressed. How draining it was to have to continuously talk her off the ledge. Yes the rent was cheap and yes they were old friends but she was starting to feel like an unpaid live-in therapist. This
was my chance talk about us moving in together. When she began smiling at babies and old couples I could have at least feigned interest in starting some sort of family or supplied her with some sort of assurance about our future. But I didn’t. Looking back I can see that my continued presence online was a misdirected attempt at to forming fulsome sort of fall-back relationship in case Marian left me. Insurance against injury. Or maybe I was just addicted to online dating. One night, after checking my messages on her computer I forgot to sign out.
LAURA
Laura ...there you are… unsocked and depanted and all alone on a saturday night...wouldn't it be interesting to imagine your hands were suddenly my hands? We might need to discuss this further over the phone…are evenings good for you?
It was particularly galling of course because I had never have invited Marian on a phone-date like that. But the tele-sexual inference was nothing compared to the spiritual infidelity. I have since asked myself a thousand times how I could have let it happen. Maybe at some level I wanted her read it. She was getting too close. Or maybe I yearned for the familiarity of unhappiness. Preferring self-destruction to uncertainty. It’s obvious now in retrospect that we were finished the moment she read that email but it took a year to sink in. To all appearances we were still together and she’d laugh and smile and even agree to help me reach an orgasm from time to time but she wasn’t necessarily in the room when she did it. She made a point of staying clothed and if I tried to unbutton any item of clothing her free hand would involuntarily push mine away. A hand-job is a great way to keep a guy at arm’s length.